


In the palm of my hand

by LuciensLibrary



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, John is a Good Friend, M/M, Masturbation, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-31
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2019-10-19 22:53:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17610581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuciensLibrary/pseuds/LuciensLibrary
Summary: Sherlock's wrists had been broken for the past two weeks. John was not sure how much more he could take. Until he finds a way to help with the detective's mood, that is.





	1. Hands off

**Author's Note:**

> This is porn, and it's silly. I don't have a beta for this, so I'm sorry for my mistakes and please feel free to point them to me. I suppose it takes place about a year into their friendship and ignores everything else. I'll be adding chapters once a week, more or less.

Sherlock's wrists had been broken for the past two weeks. John was not sure how much more he could take.

  
Thing is, Sherlock has always been a rude motherfucker. He was often clueless about basic social norms or simply could not be bothered. But he usually had the Work or experiments or whatever he did to occupy his free time with, and would at least not go out of his way to make everyone's (John's) life as miserable as possible. But now, with his two wrists completely immobilized by the casts for what seems like would be at least a couple of months, he was intolerable. Yelling every word instead of talking, refusing to eat only to devour other people's (John's) food a moment later, breaking things he _could_ grab on walls and being generally cruel and an arsehole. It was like he blamed people (John) for not being able to use his hands, even if he had broken them being an idiot in a suspect chase and jumping over concrete walls.

  
He was in a full spiteful Sherlockian mood and the earth was trembling.

  
By the time he had been thrown soup at for the second time, John pretty much had had enough (and some), and went full berserk to punch Sherlock's bonny face with all wild rage he could muster. Maybe if he broke his jaw too he could have a moment of peace! And the detective, admitting he was in slight disadvantage for not being able to use his hands, was smart enough to run. The chase all around the flat would have been rather comic if it wasn't for the fact that John's eyes screamed murder.

  
"I'm going to bloody end you!" John was yelling. Sherlock jump from the sofa's arm to the chair and then in a big jump was almost safe on his own room, but he was not quick enough to shut the door before John could storm on it and push Sherlock's body to his bed in the brutest, and manliest, of manners.

  
Sherlock's real cause for being such a prat lately spun awake almost instantly. Painfully so. Like it had been for the past two weeks at the smallest of the incentives, and Sherlock could do nothing about it because of his damn wrists! He had become so depended on that particular form of distraction when without cases that it had become an addiction, a fairly healthy one that is... considering. But now that he could not do it, Sherlock had realized he had let his _transport_ betray him again. But he could barely admit it to himself, and sure as hell would not let John Watson know about it! Well... if he could stop the man, that is.

  
"John!" Sherlock managed to yelp, before the soldier was kneeling between his legs and punching his face hard enough to make him see black for a second. That would leave an embarrassing mark on his cheek, Sherlock knew. Lucky him, he was a rather resourceful man when it came to fighting, and he didn't really wanted to be beaten to unconsciousness, so he managed to flat John on the bed (awkwardly, damn his hands!) and strand him on the mattress with his hands painfully pinned by large casts. It was a straining position to be when one was trying to keep one's hips away from one's angry colleague.

  
"Fuck you Sherlock!" John began do squirm under him, legs and arms and hot living body parts all around...

  
_God I wish I could_... was the only thing that had time to pass in Sherlock's head before John use his knee to under balance Sherlock's right leg and made him fell flat on his stomach on top of him, and with that John had maneuver space enough to pin Sherlock's hip with his legs and turn him on the bed.

  
It took John about 3 seconds of panting wrestling to realize that was something poking his lower abdomen, and two more to match this and Sherlock's bright red face. It dumbstruck him enough to let Sherlock push him and run to the bathroom, but John was a soldier and a doctor and Sherlock's only friend and his response time was pretty amazing, so he was holding the door before Sherlock had time to slam it.  
"Hum..." was the best thing that came out of his mouth.

  
"Ignore it." Sherlock said, turning his face in to the sink and pressing the betraying bulge on the cold porcelain. He kept his face down, because if he didn't, he would see John trough the mirror... and he just couldn't bare.  
"Hard to." John flinched at his own unintentional pun and cleared his throat. "I mean... is this for me?"

  
"Don't flatter yourself John!" Sherlock spit, anger and humiliation mixing to the point were he could barely stand the heat of his own face. He was horny, yes, and John was making it worse by being so fuckable (not that Sherlock dig that, he didn't dig anything), but he didn't have to loose the last niff of his dignity admitting that to John. "I would get reactions to a piece of stake at this point."

  
John got it pretty fast. He just eyed the casts (they left Sherlock with only the tip of his fingers out, and impossibilitate him to close his palms) and the back of Sherlock's trousers and a metaphorical light bulb appeared.

  
"Is that why you are being such a prat?! Oh my god Sherlock, just hire a hooker!"

  
"Can't." Sherlock murmured, trying hard not to just press his hip on the sink. The cold was doing nothing to aid him on that. "Have a reputation to maintain."

  
"Among hookers?!"

  
"Specially among hookers." Sherlock said to gritted teeth.

  
_That._ Sherlock thought. _And because I don't want to do this, at all!_ Physical necessities were a weakness. He didn’t want to need it! He was sure if he could just hold on for just a bit longer it would just... get better. Same with heroin. Same with feelings.

  
John was staring at his face in the mirror, Sherlock's periferical vision could detect a mix of worry and anger and not even a little embarrassment.

  
"Well, if you need a shag buy a goddamn doll or something, because I'm this close to break your teeth."

  
"I don't need a shag and I don't need a fucking doll!" Sherlock yelled to mirror John. "I just need my bloody hands back!"

  
John stared at him, all anger and seriousness and none of the worry left. This was it, Sherlock knew, he was going to had his head banged to the wall and then John was going to find an ugly cheap woman on the street to fuck him the moment he awoke. It revolt him, even more now that he knew he would relish so much on it.

  
And John crossed the tiny bathroom, yeah, and Sherlock was expecting the pain, but instead what he got was hands manhandling his belt from behind.

 

"Wha--?!"

  
"Shut up."

  
"John..."

  
"Just shut the fuck up." John had his hands and pants down to the middle of his bum in a second and then he hesitate.

  
Sherlock looked down. There it was, his betraying, sensitive, swelling prick, just two inches away from John's still fingers. He felt faint.

  
"Please..." he heard himself saying. John closed his fingers and the rest of it was just a blur.


	2. A little help

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock tries to understand what John is doing. John do some negotiations.

"So." John said, over a cup of tea.  
  
Sherlock preferred to stay silent.

"Not talking about it then." John continued. He sipped, sipped again, then got up and poured the rest of the cup down the sink. "I'm going to bed."

He was almost at the other end of kitchen when Sherlock decided to talk.

"Why did you do that?"

John stopped, his back still and tense even under the soft jumper. Sherlock was almost sure he didn't know either, not really, but he just had to ask. It was rare for Sherlock to not understand people's motivations, but what John had done, there against the sink, so fast and efficient and angry... It was, well, tremendously out of character for John. Because John was very, veeery vanilla, and also mostly straight (totally straight, he would say, but that was more for the sake of his mother), and a bit of a womaziner, and not at all a fan of other blokes' cocks.

"Either that, or I would hurt you. More."

Yes, well, Sherlock's face was a bit of a mess. Sore, too. But he was feeling clear headed for the first time in days and for all he cared John could have had chopped his leg off.

"I would... probably deserve it." Sherlock admitted, very quietly and as petulantly as one could when apologizing.

John turned back to him, opened his mouth twice, and then just said, very tiredly.

"I'm going to bed. Just... yeah, I'm going to bed."

-

A few days later, just as the bruises on Sherlock's face begun to turn that sick shade of yellow, things started to get ugly again. It was even weirder now, because Sherlock seemed to be trying, and failing, to contain his irritability, and John was very, very quiet for most outbursts.  
  
Things got broken when the house was silent. Mrs. Hudson excused herself two minutes after bringing scones. The air got oppressive.

When a soap commercial made Sherlock grown in frustration, John got up and went to his room, and came back a moment later with a box of tissues and a bottle of tea tree oil.

"Face the wall." He said, in a soldier voice.

Sherlock did so. He didn't even had to think, his heart jumping and racing erratically in his chest, the vague, blurred memories of the last time making him grow inside his pants almost immediately. He just got up and used those thumps of casts of brace himself on the wall like a little bitch, too eager to question John further, to ask why he was doing this. But he _needed_ what John was about to get him! And he sincerely didn't believe he was going to get it without even a beat first. It was even easier this time because he was wearing pajama bottoms, and they hadn't been fighting, which meant that this time Sherlock had a few neurons to spare to pay attention.

John Hammish Watson, when given a task, was the sort of man that got things done. Pure business like, no time for frills. So the way he pushed Sherlock’s pants down to his tights was very matter-of-fact and the noise of the bottle cap opening and closing had no hesitation behind it. Sherlock was half hard by the time John had finished rubbing his hands together, and even though he was waiting, the way John’s hand circled around his cock (firm, precise, all at once) startled him enough that his body did a weird recoil-and-push movement. John’s body aligned with his back, and John didn’t pushed away ( _Why?! Why is he doing this? Why I'm letting him do this?_ ). For a moment or two, it seemed that everything that Sherlock could feel was John’s firmly holding his cock up and his back radiating embarrassing heat. Then John begun to move.

A flick of the wrist, that was all. A simple movement and for a moment it looked like Sherlock’s mind went blank, filled with just static. He got back to himself enough to realize he never elicited this sort of response on his own, even with the use of both hands. Even in the midst of the most vigorous masturbation session (and Sherlock had tried a lot of stuff) he had never just… blanked. Let the vessel rule. Not even with the few sexual partners he had before, nothing like this even had happened.

Interesting.

The part of his brain that was not being use to analyze, which was about ninety percent by now, was just feeling that heat point of movement on his cock, was letting his throat do funny little breathless sounds, was biting the interior of his lips to keep from moaning. John’s hand was incessant, but he varied the movements a little every few strokes so it didn’t felt mechanic. John would turn his wrist this way or that, cover the head of his cock with his fingers every once in a while. The hand that wasn’t on Sherlock’s dick was stranding his ribs somewhat, and every once in a while Sherlock could feel John’s thumb circling the bonny area like he didn’t even realized he was doing it. His breath was hot and even, grazing the hairs at the base of his neck.

Sherlock was halfway to his buildup already, and he knew not that many minutes had passed ( _Oh, what’s one more embarrassment to add to this?_ ), when John spoke behind him. It was the first sign of hesitation Sherlock had seem in him about this whole… ordeal.

"It this.. is this fine?" He asked, as John usually matter of fact voice was very hushed, almost a whisper. A whisper right against his skin.

" ...Yes." Sherlock managed, between teeth, his knees shaking already. His orgasm was building fast, and he didn’t want to make a mess in the wallpaper, and he felt it was the polite thing to try to warn John, but the part of his mind that was preoccupied with those things had lost contact with his language centers, apparently. "J-John, I… ah…"

There was a box of tissues, but John didn’t reach for it. He took the hand on Sherlock’s ribs and covered the head of his cock with it, and pushed his strokes a bit harder, and Sherlock felt more then heard his own moan reverberating in his throat. And he knew he had buckled forward because John’s body got away from him for a second. For a long, white second, when all there was in Sherlock's mind was an awareness of his own body trembling, of John's hands on him.

John didn’t catch it all, he couldn’t (Sherlock had always been one of those man that made an disproportionately big mess with every orgasm), and the goo dripped down to the floor. Sherlock looked down for the first time, he hadn’t realized he was facing the wallpaper so intently, and saw two strong and darker hands circling his prick, cum dripping, and the soft smell of the oil unable to hide the smell of recent sex.

His knees wobbled, and he had to put his whole weight on his elbows and forehead on the wall. Gosh, that had been ridiculously intense!

Then John’s presence, the heat of him, got out of Sherlock’s immediate premises and Sherlock turned his face to watch as he fish a tissue from the box, then another one, whipping his hand with them in a sort of surgical manner. On the third tissue he spoke again, the matter of fact voice returning with just the slight tremor.

"Jesus Christ, you are loaded."

Sherlock took a breath before responding.  
  
"Yes I, hum, I maybe should had told you about that."

Mechanical. They were having a flat, mechanical conversation. It didn't make any sense.

"Always like this?" It didn’t escape Sherlock that although John was speaking with him normally, he wouldn’t turn to look at him. Sherlock pull his pajama trousers up to the best of his abilities to see if it would help.

"Yes. I don’t really know why."

John finished wiping his hands and pushed the box in the general direction of Sherlock, still not looking. Sherlock cataloged what he was seeing. _Flushed face, slightly dilated pupils, lips white were teeth had been pressing too hard. No sign of erection, but those pants are large. Could be embarrassment, could be sexual arousal. Inconclusive._ This took him half a second, of course, now that his head was clear and his vessel properly sated for time being.

"Well, clean the mess on the floor will ya? I’ll make tea."

Sherlock didn’t protest, choosing to just fish a tissue and rub it on the spot on the linoleum floor enough that no visible drops were still there. He couldn’t do much with just the tip of his fingers, but it was good enough for Mrs. Hudson to not realize what that strange spot was.

Sherlock sat back on the sofa, forming theories upon theories of what was going on, none of which when further then _John is sick of my moodiness_. John came back a few minutes later with two mugs (Sherlock’s was the one with a large rubber bands around, so he could hold it with his casts), and sat by Sherlock’s side looking like he was set on just watching telly for the rest of the night.

He wasn’t, of course.

"So, a week is too long of a time for you to wait, apparently." John said, still not looking at him.

Sherlock didn’t know what to say to that. So he hid his face on the tea and almost burned himself on it.

"I need to know how many times you’ll need me to do this, Sherlock."

"You don’t." It came out too fast. "I’ll… ask Ivanka. She doesn’t, hum, gossip much." Sherlock muttered, looking down.

"That’s ‘cause she can’t speak english and only has half of her teeth." John said pressing the remote to change channels randomly. "Besides, you don’t want tho ask the prostitutes. If you wanted, you’ve done it already."

"Well, I would prefer that they didn’t see me like… this."

 _Vulnerable and needy_ were left out, but both Sherlock and John knew that that was what was being said.

John looked down, fiddled with the remote, then looked back up, this time directly at Sherlock.

"I’ll do it. I don’t mind. It's obvious how much it affects you... your mind, I don't know. You only get like this when you can't think, and you don't thrust anyone with it." John had an embarrassed look on his face, like he was afraid to admit something he was good at it and sound arrogant. "I'm your least horrible option in a difficult situation, and it's fine. But I need you to tell me what it is that you need, exactly."

Sherlock took a breath, and also the time to think about this. He didn’t know what he needed. Not anymore. He used to masturbate in the shower, or before bed, with the same attention one gives to brushing teeth or putting on pajamas. It would help his mind to unwind a bit, to signal the brain that it was time for a general clean up of useless data. He wasn't, despite his best efforts, naturally asexual, but the drug dealers that had demanded blowjobs and the one relationship he had had in college had convinced Sherlock that there was nothing more unnecessarily messy and complicated then sex. He dealt with his body's needs, but hadn’t been paying attention to his own orgasms for so long that have them strong enough to shake his insides now was... disconcerting. Not to mention it was John giving them to him.

John.

His John.

It was one of those human-interaction things that Sherlock could barely understand.

"I, hum, I think every other day. If that’s fine for you." Keep things mechanical, he decided, was the best course of action.

"Yep."John agreed, facing the TV again. "Fine. Technique?"

"What you… what you do is good enough" _What you do is knocking the senses out of me, John, didn’t you see?! I’m still shaking, gosh, I’m still feeling it right now, I’m scared by how you make me feel._ Sherlock bit his tongue, and archived those wild thoughts for later.

"Fine. Settled then." John changed the channels a couple more times until he settled at British Cook Off. Sherlock chewed on the inside of his cheek for a while, uncertain if he should ask, but it appeared that it would be rude not to.

"Do you want… something? In return?"

John looked sharply at him, those blue eyes wide and confused.

"What? No! No I’m… fine. You don’t need to do anything. I’m fine."

"Right." Sherlock looked away. "Thank you anyway. I mean, this is… Just, thank you."

It took John a few seconds to answer to that, and when he did, it was in one unreadable voice.

"Yeah, don’t mention it."


	3. Dazzled

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, life ya know! Anyways, here's another nugget of porn for you guys.

Third time was almost funny, because Sherlock was barely thinking about it. They had just finished a case (boring, but he was incapacitated so he took what he could get), his body being not exactly sated but not crazily craving it either since it had been only two days. Then he had emerged from the shower and found John in his bedroom with the same bottle of oil that had been so far only associated with healing minor cuts, and the same box of tissues on hand, sitting at his bed. Stiff upper lip and all.

"It’s ok, you’re tired, we can do this tomorrow." Sherlock said, before he could properly think about what he wanted to say.

"Are you sure? ‘Cause I don’t want to wake up to you destroying the kitchen again." John scolded him.

Sherlock was about to say he was going to be fine, that he had post-case endorphins running his veins to keep him in control, when he realized that this would be the case if he hadn’t seen John sitting on his bed ready to put those doctor’s hands on his cock until he came.

Now, though, he had seen John there, and he would be thinking about it all night, anticipating the day ahead, and suffering the hot pooling around his lower bits like an anxiety crisis.

Apparently his silence was answer enough.

"Ok, this is awkward as it is, let’s not dwell on it much, alright?" John looked at the towel Sherlock was using to rub his hair dry before he entered the room. "I think I’ll need this, you’re like a goddamn geyser."

Sherlock felt his face lit red, before he remembered that he didn’t care (shouldn’t care) about what the quirks and weirdness of his _transport_. He threw John the towel.

"You can use it, for...you know. I’m fine without lubrication."

John looked at the towel, thinking. He seemed only slightly disconcerted, now. Somehow...resigned.

"Yeah, sure, it’s your cock. Turn." Sherlock immediately closed the door and brace himself against it. _He don’t want to look at me while he does it_. Sherlock thought, as John came closer and opened the front of his robe. _Is he trying to mimic the way my own hand feels? It feels totally different_. But the position was as close as masturbation as possible, he had to admit. Only he could feel John’s body pressed against his back, and so it wasn’t so much masturbation as it was a sort of one-way-dry-humping. If John would ever show any interest, that was.

The towel was cold, at first. John’s other hand was steadying him at his hips, this time, not his ribs. The cold of the towel covering his still soft cock contrasted with the heat of John’s body and Sherlock closed his eyes. He could feel the contour of all John’s fingers behind the thin cold fabric, just rubbing him awake, a simple up and down motion that was setting his nerve endings on fire. He wasn’t sure John had meant to cup his testicles but he let a small breathless noise escape when he did.

"That is nice?" John asked mildly surprised, doing it again. Sherlock could feel his erection growing fast, even more so with the clinical way John was talking to him. Sherlock willed down the desire to rub John’s front with his arse and nodded again, unsure of his own voice. John tug at his testicles lightly, the towel ends brushing the interior of his tights. Then, because his cock was already heavy and hard, John circled the towel around it and stroke.

"I used to use a sock, when I was younger. Never did it with a towel." John commented. He seemed to be trying to normalize the whole thing, and Sherlock wanted to help, wanted to make John more at ease with this, because he was going to need those hands for some long two months, but damn the mental image! Sherlock was sure John had been an athletic kid, playing football with his mates and trying to keep in shape to impress the ladies. John at seventeen, late at night in his bedroom, holding a sock to his hard, hard cock and making low noises not to wake the rest of the house…

"Are socks nice?" It was what escape Sherlock’s mouth, in one breath, like he was asking for a secret.

"Everything was nice back then." John commented, and he did one of those flick of a wrist movements that send a shiver all through Sherlock’s spine. "Is a towel nice?"

"Yeah." Was all he managed, and it kinda ended on a moan so Sherlock decided he should not say anything else.

His throat wanted to keep working though, and Sherlock wasn’t sure why he didn’t seem able to stop the little noises, deep and needy, from spurting out of his lips. He focused on John’s hand on his hip, tried to... He had barely felt it before but John was holding him with a lot of force, enough to let bruises. John was wearing jeans, and Sherlock could feel the seams through his bathrobe, on his arse. He could feel what was beyond the seams. He could feel when John’s indifference begun to falter, when his cock twitched and when John tried to find a way to keep stroking him while trying to keep his own hips from pressing so hard against Sherlock’s bottom.

Gosh he was close already. The towel that had begun cold was burning hot against his sensitive skin, and John must had felt his body changing because his strokes became faster. The force of them made Sherlock bounce a little back and forth, and even though he was concentrating so hard in biting his lips shut, he could feel John’s cock still, fuller on those jeans, not entirely erect yet but if he could just hang on for a bit longer…

 _I want to feel John hard_ was a thought that hit Sherlock with a lightening clarity amidst the fog of desire, and it send him over the edge. He bulked, and the air got trapped in his vocal cords and he could feel burning hot cum filling out the towel, smearing on the length of his cock, dirty and delicious and, oh gosh, his knees really weren’t happy to have to keep him up! John helped, by crossing his free arm around his waist while pressing the last waves out of him.

And when it was over, John didn’t move.

"It’s always like this?" He asked in a murmur, words hitting the back of Sherlock’s neck and causing goosebumps.

"Hum?" What on earth the man was talking about?

"It always seems so… strong."

Sherlock wanted to turn, look at John, shove a leg between his. He didn’t know why he wanted those things yet, but it took true willpower to stop his body from doing it.

"No, not always." He whispered, feeling dry-mouthed.

John wiped him up, carefully, and stepped away. Sherlock closed the bathrobe in front of him, giving a half arsed knot (damn stupid casts!) and turned over. John had pink ears and pink cheeks and was very pointedly trowing the dirty towel on the clothes bin.

"Thank you." Sherlock said, because really, what he could say? John wave dismissively before glancing at him sheepishly

"I, hum, I’m sorry. For, ha, this." He did a general gesture in the direction of his crotch. Sherlock could see his jeans were still a bit tighter then they should. "I know you felt it."

Sherlock cocked his head and let his verbose nature do the thinking for him, still slightly dizzy from the after-waves of his orgasm.

"Really John, after what you are doing for me I don’t have any right to expect that you remain professionally immaculate." What he wanted to say was more along the lines of _“I did felt it and I love it and I want to feel it again, please”_ but his dignity hadn’t been burned to the ground yet.

"I’m doing this so you don’t get destructive and maniac again." John said, getting his things. "You need me to, so I’ll do it. I’ll... think of something else next time."

And he left, and Sherlock sat on the bed, extremely clear headed and still confused as hell.


	4. Porn

John still got _bothered_ next time, again in the bathroom against the sink because “it’s easier to clean” and seemed to be somehow frustrated with himself that he couldn’t keep his cock nice and flaccid for the five minutes it was taking Sherlock to come. Sherlock, by his turn, was not only embarrassed by the fact that he needed this at all but also by the sheer force of his orgasms and by how little he was able to resist them. They didn’t talk, during, and afterward John seemed pretty adamant to discuss the latest experiment with Sherlock like they had been just sorting the laundry. Sherlock indulged him. He still didn’t know what to say, and he still couldn't pin down the reason why plain vanilla straight John was making him trash around like a teenager on the back of a car.

He felt sated, but far away from satisfied.

 

"You seem calmer, Sherlock. Took up to meditation?"  
Sherlock managed to look back at Mrs. Hudson with casual disinterest, but he could see John blush by the corner of his eye.

"Never was one to let my mind go blanc, boredom would kill me." Unless it was because John was forcing all of his thoughts out of his head with the flicker of a wrist, that was.

"Well, whatever it is, keep doing it, you seem much better." She smiled and make her turn to go down the stairs again, then thought better of it. "Unless it goes up your nose or into a syringe, then I much rather have the moods, dear."

Sherlock let a small smile play in his lips while he responded to that.

"What a preposterous insinuation Mrs. Hudson! I would never."

"Besides." John said, face still half hidden behind his morning newspaper. "The bastard would probably ask me to make the lines for him, and would bugger me off about how they are not straight enough."

Mrs. Hudson laugh, agreeing, but Sherlock let his eyes linger on John a few seconds.

_"Not straight enough, hum? Perhaps"_

"Anyway, enjoy the lunch boys. But don't get used to it! I'm only doing this because Sherlock is in the state he is."

The state he was, Sherlock thought, was much more deplorable then their landlady would be able to guess from just looking him over. It had been a little over twelve hours since John last had put his hands on him, and Sherlock was already buzzing inside his own skin. Not the way he had been before, frustrated and unable to do anything about it... the buzzing was more on the realm of titillation then dread, and Sherlock had been desperately trying to understand himself and this stupid, ridiculous reaction.

John was just doing the same thing as Mrs. Hudson, essentially. Providing him with a basic necessity his current disability let him unable to attend to himself. It was nothing to John other then being helpful, of course, so if he had gotten a little stiff last couple of times... surely it was because Sherlock had been providing a moving bottom pressed against his crotch, and John hadn't gotten laid in ages. It was a fluke, of course.

Sherlock had no business wanting more of it.

"You're thinking." John said, many minutes later.

"I'm always thinking."

"You're thinking about... uh. Your stress relief."

Sherlock let his eyes do their icy perforation (or at least, that's what he had been told they did, metaphors were a necessary bore to deal with normal people), and watched John shift a little in his chair.

"You are a mystery, John Watson." He muttered, more to himself then to anyone else. John scoff.

"If I'm a mystery, you're the bloody Stonehange." Then, finally stretching out of his position, John got up and went to poke at Mrs. Hudson package. "Hum, dumplings! I'll get your sharp chopsticks."

 

A day and a half later, Sherlock had forced the issue out of his mind in favor of some cold-case folders Mycroft had gifted him in the guise of a “get-well” balloon. His hands ached, the high-tech plastic casts not as uncomfortable as they could be but still driving him a bit mad by their mere existence. He knew John was going to show up later, tell him to face a wall and get him off as efficiently as a Swiss clock. But it was early, the sun hadn’t set completely, and John was in his own room probably indulging in some long unnecessary shower and Sherlock had to ask him something about the nature of a particularly weird social phenomenon called “planking”.

He didn’t knock, he never knocked before. But maybe boredom had rotten his deductive powers because usually Sherlock knew with hours in advance when John had the intention to wank off and now there he was, froze at his door like an idiot while John didn’t know if he shut his computer first or took his hand out of his pants.

"I’m...I’m sorry, I’ll come back later." Sherlock muttered after what felt like ages of doing a dumbstruck impression of a statue. He had made a harsh half turn and was already on the middle of the stairs when a thought occurred to him and Sherlock trotted back because he couldn’t, _he just couldn’t_ resist a deduction.

"You know, I don’t mind if you get hard, you don’t need to take this… precautions." He said, not really getting back in the room, just standing with his back on the door frame facing the way out, in case John decided to kick him out for being obnoxious.

_“I_ want _to get you hard, I want to get you trembling on your feet the same way you get_ me _”_ was something Sherlock didn’t said. He filed it away at the 'Wild thoughts about John masturbating me' mental folder that Sherlock was too afraid to analyze.

John had composed himself better, sitting properly on the bed and killing the muffled sounds on his laptop, but track pants without underwear were simply not capable of hiding any sort of hard-on. Sherlock wasn’t looking at him but John’s voice sounded like of a man very flustered.

"Who says I’m taking any precautions? Maybe I just…"

"It disrupts your masturbatory pattern." Sherlock interrupted him, still looking the other way.

"I don’t have a masturbatory pattern!"

"Yes you do."

They got quiet for a couple of seconds. Sherlock was about to leave again when John called him.

"Ok, alright, just… sit."

Sherlock glanced inside the room, and shuffled his feet until he was sitting at John’s bed, as far away from the man as physics allowed. He looked at John behind his own bangs and found him very red on the face but staring at Sherlock very intently.

"How can you not mind?" John asked, flat toned. Sherlock shrugged.

"Why should I?" Was a safer answer then _“I have weird desires about making you come that I don’t know what to do with_ ”.

"It feels like… I’m taking advantage of you! Of your situation, whatever this damn thing is."

Sherlock look at John straight in the eye then because really, how could a person be this obtuse?!

"Advantage...John! You’re not taking advantage of anything, at all, what so ever. You are quite literally keeping my sanity in check, because my stupid body got addicted on this… thing, and if your body decides to react, for whatever reasons, I completely understand that is not because you consciously want to _enjoy_ the act. I know you _don’t_! Enjoy, that is. It would be easier if you did, at least it wouldn’t feel like I’m… making you do something you hate."

_“Ah, maybe that’s it, maybe that’s why. Goddamn feelings. Goddamn embarrassing monologues”._

John opened his mouth to say something, closed of again, looked away, picking at some stray fraying at his bed-cover.

"I don’t hate it." He muttered. "And you’re not making me do anything."

Well, that was it, the air got heavy enough to cut with a knife, so Sherlock had to crack a joke because things were getting way too emotional and this wasn’t his field _at all_.

"I’m making you see even more atrocious porn then usual, what a terrible friend I am."

John giggled before he turned to Sherlock with mock indignation. 

"It’s not atrocious."

"Terrible!" Sherlock made a point at flipping open the laptop again and looking at the paused scene. "This one is thinking about dinner, the girl is coming down with a flu and the other guy is clearly constipated."

"Oh great, now you’re ruining my porn for me." John pinched the bridge of his nose. "I was enjoying this one."

"Why?! I never saw the appeal of porn."

John scooted closer, taking his laptop and propping it on his own lap (the raging hard on had diminished quite a lot).

"It’s fantasy. I facilitates me imagining myself on those situations and… well, it helps. Godamn you’re only person that would make me explain the appeal of porn!" John laugh nervously "How did you do it? On your own?"

Sherlock shrugged again.

"Just doing it. I didn’t need to imagine anything to harvest the endorphins."

He could see John rolling his eyes by the corner of his eye, before looking almost sad at the video. It showed a blond woman with small breasts being penetrated from behind and in the mouth by two almost identical muscle blokes.

"I _liked_ this one, it had a nice storyline…"

Sherlock look at the dozens small thumbnails of other videos on the side of that particular one and pointed at one. He wasn’t sure what John meant by ‘storyline’ but it was fairly obvious when someone was actually enjoying the sex.

"This one."

John look at him in doubt, but click on it anyway.

It was another of two blokes and a girl, only this girl was a brunet and the camera work was much more amateur.

"Now, _she_ is clearly liking this. Had been planning this herself, apparently." Sherlock begun, seeing the girl and one of the guys stripping each other efficiently while the other one was visible at a mirror behind them, filming. "The one filming is her boyfriend, not of long. They had talk about bringing the blond one to their bed before. The blond bloke is a bit tipsy, and nervous, so I believe he hadn’t been informed previously that they intended to fuck him." Then Sherlock realized that John was staring at him. "What, isn’t that what you wanted? Context?"

John made a funny sound on the back of his throat that seemed like a hybrid of embarrassment and lack of patience and muttered something about 'deduction porn' not being an actual thing.

"Well, I’ll let you to it then." Sherlock said, getting up, but John stop him with a hand at his elbow.

"No, now you started!"

_“Well, that’s interesting”_ Sherlock thought. Was John actually turned on by what he was saying? He sat again, getting closer to John and looking more intently at the video.

"She is about to pull the boyfriend in, so they had plan this in detail… Boyfriend wants to penetrate anally while his mate does in from the front, and she agreed as long as he promised to suck on the other bloke. See how they are staring? Ah, camera’s down, I think she is getting her request first."

As if on cue, the couple overthrown the blond man on the bed and the girl sat on his face while the boyfriend lowered himself to get a mouth on the other man’s penis. Sherlock was utterly uninterested until he looked back at John and saw the reaction. John was staring unblinking at the video, dilated pupils and erection beginning to grow again. He wasn’t touching himself, but he wanted, and suddenly Sherlock wanted him to want it, wanted to see John touching himself, even if it was by looking a cheap camerawork and cheap pornography. Sherlock invented a half baked excuse on his brain of why it would be good to know where John’s weakness lies but it was unbelievable even to himself. It was that thing again, that wish to see the man loose it… maybe so they would be equal in shame? Sherlock didn’t know, but he continued.

"The blond bloke isn’t great at cunnilingus, apparently, but the boyfriend is pretty decent at what he is doing. Blondie enjoys the view, she had been waiting to be in this situation for years… it doesn’t matter the other one isn’t great, she can grind against his chin and get off just by looking. I think she wants the boyfriend to touch himself." Right then the girl on the video lean over and said something to the man doing oral on the other and he immediately put a hand between his legs.

John audibly swallowed and swore something Sherlock couldn’t make up under his breath and then he turned to look back at Sherlock, but not at his face. Down.

"Well, apparently porn does affect you a little bit."

_“Not porn, you”._ Sherlock bit the side of his cheek and didn’t say a word. His damn fingertips, the only useful parts of his hands, were grabbing at the bed-cover and he was just washed with a desire to _rut_ against something. Against John’s hand, maybe. Or other part of him.

"You know, I just realized how much it must suck that you can’t get off when you want to." John said, almost like he was philosophizing on the matters of masturbation. He still wasn’t touching himself. Sherlock’s inner resolve was determined to change that.

"It seems to me that right now you’re on the same situation."

John chucked again, but not the mischievous way, more the nervous way.

"Maybe."

There was a pause, a long one, while John averted his eyes back to the video. Sherlock chewed on his lower lip before deciding to continue.

"The blond bloke is out of sorts, he doesn’t know what to think of his friend performing oral on him." John took a sharp breath in, but didn’t said anything. "I believe he is going to try to maneuver this to more familiar territory, so he will probably flip the girl or push her back to the boyfriend so he can watch. Ah, second opt…!"

Sherlock didn’t got to the end of the phrase as John’s hand came suddenly to his lap to unzip the now strained front of his pants. His cock plopped out obscenely, partially visible by the sheerness of his white underwear. John wasn’t looking at him, he was very fixated on the video, and that was definitely not the hand he was used to use on those activities (Sherlock was sitting by his left, their knees pressed together), but when his palm made an upwards press against his clothed prick, Sherlock had to summon a lot of self control to not whine.

"I-I think the Girl had anticipated some resistance from the Blond." Sherlock panted and forced himself to pay attention back at the video, like his cock wasn’t being gloriously massaged. "She is looking around, measuring her plans, see? The Boyfriend is down for anything, I wonder what she promised him after t-this…" His voice faulted, and Sherlock had to take a moment to get some air into his lungs. John look at him by the corner of his eyes, then back at the video.

"You really don’t mind?" He asked, very low.

"I really don’t." Sherlock breathed out, swallowing his little noises as best as he could.

John hesitated yet, but soon enough his other hand was circling around his own cock, on top of the loose pants, marking the contours of it. He begun to stoke himself on the same pace he was stroking Sherlock.

"What she’s thinking now?" John asked, raspy voice. Sherlock had, in the spam of ten seconds, completely forgotten about the video.

"I’m not a mind reader." Sherlock bit back, but the effect was ruined by the fact that his hips had decided to do little upward motions in the direction of John’s hand.

John made a very efficient movement of pushing down his underwear and Sherlock gasped, and closed his eyes, and breath deeply before looking at the laptop again.

"S-she will try to make them snog with her in the middle. Boyfriend on the back, Blond on the front. Girl is v-very confident...ohn…"

Sherlock’s brain was going into overdrive, which was so rare he barely recognize the feeling. He was trying to pay attention to the video, but all his focus seemed to wander back and back again at John, at the way John’s cock was trapped behind those pants, the way John’s hand would reveal it’s contours for a second before hiding them again in a scrunching of fabric, and even more on the way John’s other hand was bobbing up and down on him, of his own cock (so red now it was almost purple), drawing those little _moans_ out of him.

"Sherlock…" John said, even more raspy now. Sherlock realized he had been silent for way too long.

"Right, the g-girl is...ah… I think her intentions are quite clear now…" In the video, the woman had positioned herself between the men and was trapping their cocks together between her tights. John looked at the video and back at Sherlock.

"Yes, that...yeah." John muttered, not sure where he set his eyes on. "You don’t need to hold back ya know."

"Hold what back?" Sherlock wasn’t sure he was holding anything, his hips had apparently taken control of the entirety of his body’s movements.

"The...noises. You’re not… first time you’re much more vocal." Sherlock felt that even in this mortifying situation, there was always something that could get worse. He didn’t even remember the first time except for the hot burning pleasure and the vague obscenity of his own expressions in the mirror. It had lasted so little time! And now his face, already a rosy pink, went hot red all over.

"I’m s-sorry about that. The first time." John was now looking very intently at the video. Sherlock didn’t want to distract the man out of his porno with some probably very male, very deep sex noises he was sure he was about to make.

"No, it’s ok." And John made something with his hand, something that put a pressure on the part of Sherlock’s cock that was the most sensitive and he felt his orgasm getting there so much faster then it was a second before. "Go ahead."

_“Go ahead”_ must had been somewhat subconscious code-words implanted on his brain before because as soon as Sherlock heard it, he just couldn’t stop himself. His arms, supporting his weight on the bed, begun to shake and a bunch of “ahs” begun to drip out of his mouth incessantly, like little droplets of honey. His eyes closed, and Sherlock forgot all about the video once again. John was so close, John was so hard himself, echoing Sherlock’s sounds in a more breathless, controlled way. John _smelled_ like sex, and like John, and the combination was bypassing any logic in Sherlock’s brain and going straight to his crotch, tightening his balls, his leg muscles.

"Damn, you’re going to make a mess on my bed." John moaned, like it had just occurred to him, and Sherlock opened his eyes to find John looking down at his cock, porn forgotten, right hand now very much _inside_ his pants, movements frantic.

And then Sherlock went and made a mess on John’s bed. Quite a spectacular mess, when the first wave of his climax got him by surprise and Sherlock’s arms gave away and he felt backwards still trusting up, and his cum made an arch and hit his jaw line and neck and the bed cover by his side. And he kept coming still, over his shirt, and then over John’s hand... all over John’s hand.

Sherlock’s vision hadn’t come back from white yet when he felt John’s _completely cum covered_ hand leaving him and he felt more then saw when John shove it inside him pants and pressed against his own cock because he was coming right after, right through his pants. Sherlock couldn’t look away as John felt by his side, wet splosh getting bigger, his entire body twitching. John made a sound, like he was surprised in the middle of a moan. Sherlock wanted to swallow that sound with his own mouth, but he couldn’t, couldn’t even move yet.

The silence that followed wasn’t oppressive. It was much more satisfied then anything else, and Sherlock was surprise to discover he was almost sleepy. Also sticky and cum-covered, but that had been the closest he had been of being really satisfied so far. Damn, he could probably solve half of those cases now with a glance!

"This… shouldn’t happen again." John said, barely a murmur, just when Sherlock was beginning to feel more sticky then satisfied.

Lots of things had happened, and Sherlock, as smart and as brilliant as he was, wasn’t sure of what John was talking about.

"This… what parts?"

John turn his head on the bed, look at Sherlock with an expression that was tired and serious and something else Sherlock wasn’t sure about.

"Me. Indulging. Is not right."

Sherlock couldn’t help but roll his eyes at that.

"Really John? Isn’t this discussion already a month old?"

It was comforting when John let a little laugh escape at that, the one he did when Sherlock was being simultaneously obnoxious and adorable. John didn’t laugh nearly enough in his life, and sometimes Sherlock was willing to sound a bit ridiculous to get a smile out of the man.

"I… I can’t Sherlock. Really, this can’t happen again. I’m sorry, you’re not making me do something I hate but… I can’t do this if we do it together." John turn his gaze back up, to the spots in the ceiling, but Sherlock kept looking at him. John was blushed, of course, because of what they had just been doing. But somehow he seem to be blushing more, instead of less.

"Is this a _feeling_ thing?" Sherlock asked, turning his body sideways to face John properly.

John look over, and this time Sherlock saw his gaze fixate on the cum streaks that were drying on his neck. The blush hit his ears, and Sherlock thought about running his hands (his free hands, away from those bloody casts) on John’s hair, smooth them over those pink ears.

"Hum, yeah, sort of. Bloody hell Sherlock, this is really weird, you know!"

There was a whole wing on his mind palace for stray, unrequited thoughts about John and John touching him and John making him come, a part of his mind Sherlock couldn’t make sense of. Or maybe he could, but it was way too strange, impossible and unfortunate for Sherlock to even begin to consider, so he didn’t.

"I know." He answered.

It was all really weird, very inconvenient and probably dangerous. But oh, so good.


	5. Wet

The subsequent two times, it felt almost clinical, almost as if John was purposefully trying _not to think_ while he did it. But he had been hard, unmistakeably hard and not denying it. Sherlock thought he had catched John almost kissing his neck, but then he was coming and then John was fleeing the flat saying he had to buy milk. He was probably on the stairs outside, willing his erection away, but Sherlock couldn’t reach or call him… feelings were not his area, and for once Sherlock could admit to himself he was actually afraid of what was going on.

 

The time after that one, Sherlock was hurt. Nothing major, just some stitches on his back. John was sewing the gash back together while they sat at the edge of the bathtub, both smelling like gun power and sweat. In Sherlock’s case, also blood, copious amongs of it.

"How in the world can you get into so much trouble without even using your hands?" John asked, not for the first time. "Really, this took nine stitches!"

"Only nine? Just a Thursday afternoon then." Sherlock smiled a little, resting his casts on his destroyed pants.

"I’m not even… you know, forget it, hop in the shower."

Sherlock looked behind himself.

"What?"

"Shower. I can’t risk all this grime getting in the wound and infecting it, is awfully close to your lungs." When Sherlock seemed to hesitate moving it, John let a huff of annoyance. "Really, we past the point of shyness don’t you think? I’m going to clean you properly, you can’t scrub debris out of you with this little mobility."

"Fine." Sherlock muttered, frustrated. He despised not being able to do stuff by himself, and having to take a “sponge bath” was beyond humiliating. He yanked his pants out trying not to think about the fact that this was the first time John was seeing him fully naked and he looked like something chewed and spit over. "Might as well save hot water and you shower with me."

John look up at him (he had been staking the first aid kit) with the deer-cought-in-the-lights look.

"What, you said yourself, we past the point of shyness." Sherlock spit, still frustrated as hell that his stupid hands hadn’t healed yet, and with John’s warped view of sexual etiquette and with a bunch of other little concerning things going on in his head.

John seemed to consider, then he begun to take his ragged shirt off, turning the other way.

Sherlock didn’t particularly wanted to look, not now when he was so pissed at himself, the day, John mother-henning him, breakable bones… he started the shower and let the hot water run down his head, washing away the thick of the blood and ashes, but then he felt John enter the shower behind him and he turned over and oh!

Really nice pe--

"Eyes up here, Sherlock." John muttered, under his teeth, and Sherlock looked at him and then away.

"Sorry."

John turned him over and begun to clean the blood around the wound with wet fingers. They didn’t talk for a while, not when John took the loofah and begun to wash his back, not when he picked little pieces of concrete out of Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock, busy trying to not think the words _“amazing abs”_ and _“beautiful uncut cock”,_ let himself be fussed with without protest. Then John turned him over to wash his chest and Sherlock tried very firmly to look sideways.

"You like this them?" John asked, quietly.

" Like what exactly, John?"

"Hum...men." This question had been nagging John since the beginning of their friendship, although he like to pretend it didn’t.

" _I_ like my Work." Sherlock said, with some despise. "The _transport_ on the other hand… isn’t picky."

"Hum, right." John muttered. Sherlock couldn't stop noticing that John was taking about 20% more time then necessary to clean him up.

It was an odd day, they did _that_ on odd days. Sherlock could ask. John would just do it. They would not talk about it. John would still leave the bathroom half hard and unsatisfied.

"You’re sure you don’t?" Sherlock asked, with a the tone of voice to match a courage he wasn’t feeling.

"What?"

"Like men."

John look up to his eyes, hot water streaming down his head.

"I… I think I don’t. I’ve never have."

But as he said it, his hands were traveling south of Sherlock’s body. Soapy hands. Sherlock didn’t try to contain the shiver.

"You’re ok to do this now?" John asked, murmured.

Sherlock nodded.

He was turned over sharply by two hands on his hips and nearly slipped on the tiled floor, but John hold him enough that Sherlock could stabilize himself by bracing on the wall. He didn’t try to pretend he wasn’t pushing his behind up in invitation. John just reach in front of him, not trying to pretend he wasn’t rubbing himself on Sherlock’s arse. It was all so close to what Sherlock really wanted that he was already feeling his orgasm building up, and he had to keep himself in check this time, he had to control himself at least a little bit more, give John the time to loose his own control… give them time to make this time count.

"John, can you…?" Sherlock pushed his arse back more forcefully, grind them on John beautiful cock. "Please, just your f-fingers…"

"Christ!" He heard John utter, and he didn’t sound clinical at all. He stop pumping his fist and steady both of his hands on Sherlock’s waist. The detective was simultaneously angry and glad about that, since he did want this to last but his body was just so _keen_ that the lack of touch almost hurt him physically. At the same time, his mind had come to a halt.

Maybe he had gone to far, after all.

But then John dragged his hand all the way up Sherlock’s spine, forcing him to bend more, perk up more, and Sherlock moaned loud, unable to stop himself. He almost buckled down when both of John’s hands rested on between his tights, forcing his legs to spread apart. John was panting, and his movements were slower, much more deliberate then they had been so far. There was a moment when John wasn’t touching him at all, busy soaping his hand, and then the pad of a thumb was pressed right on Sherlock’s hole, just a little pressure… Sherlock tried to chase it, to fuck himself on that finger. John steady him with his free hand.

"Easy, Sherlock… I don’t want to hurt you."  John’s voice was trembling, even above the noise of the water.

" ‘s ok if you do." Sherlock utter, barely coherent. He knew he liked pain (would not be in his line of work if he didn’t) and he had experimented with it before. A little roughness had always been a welcoming sensation to the whole nasty business of wanking off, but now it would just serve him to delay his orgasm for a little bit, which was great because he was almost there already.

"… of course you have fucking kinks" John muttered to himself, and pushed his thumb in, and Sherlock made a noise that was not that far away from cheap commercial porn. It should be embarrassing, but he didn’t care.

The water was hot and incessant on his back, his stitches throb with pain, and the tiles were cold were the casts supported him, and Sherlock tried to focus on those little sensations when John begun to move his finger inside him. But it felt so good, oh so good, it felt like sex was described in steamy novels… ardent and mind-bogging. Then John add another finger, and twist them, and Sherlock yelped so loud John stop.

"D-did I hurt you? " He sound rough. Sherlock wanted to look, but all he could see was bathroom tiles.

"No, gosh no! This… do it again. Again!"

The second time John hit his prostate Sherlock kept the noise to a whimper, but he buckled back and almost lost his balance.

"Gosh, you are so…" John whispered, and Sherlock could feel the tip of the man’s cock hitting the inside of his tight, and it was driving him slightly insane by the second. What he was though, John never said. _“Wrong”_? _“Hot”_? _“Dangerous”_?

"You can…" Sherlock tried to say, but again the two finger hit his prostate and he lost the ability to speak for a few seconds. John understood anyway.

"No, I can’t. Sherlock, I can’t!"

"But you w-want to…" Sherlock risked looking back, and John was so disvailish, and wet, and breathless.

Sherlock wanted to kiss him, which was a silly thing to want at that point.

"Do… do you want...me… to?" John punctuated every one of his words with his fingers, and oh this wasn’t fair, how could anyone _think_ under such treatment?

"I…"

"Can you come from just my fingers?"

"Yes!" That was an easy one. That was also probably John chickening out, which Sherlock would consider out of character for him had he been spared any mental power to think.

Sherlock could distantly feel his tights tremble harder, the hand John was using to stabilize his waist dig harder, bruise him, and the water on his back, constant, numbing, but mostly what he felt was his arse being finger fucked, two finger, then three, rough, wet…

"W-what the hell are we doing?!" John asked, barely over the noise of the water, sounding dismayed, and also rough, and also wet, and like he was straining against the strongest force on earth all by himself.

Sherlock look back again, balls tight and cock bouncing, and he pushed against John, because John in the fog of that hot bathroom look unreal.

"Fuck… John!" and that could have been an answer to that question, but Sherlock couldn’t tell, because the next moment he was going weak and coming hard and the water was washing everything away like a dream. Before the last wave of his orgasm he felt John stepping back, as if shocked.

He had enough strength to turn and lean on the tiled wall, damn the stitches, legs sort of crossed over one another barely supporting his weight. And then there was John in front of him, half frozen in place, almost a sorry figure with his gorgeous cock an angry shade of red, his wet hair glued to his forehead, hands half of the way to Sherlock, half closed fingers. Mental clarity hit like a brick, this time, because Sherlock realized he knew nothing, he was lost on this new realm of “them”, John and him and this thing that was so much more then a helping hand by this point but still had no name or definition. Sherlock realized he was stuck, and when stuck, there was only one thing a Holmes would do.

Move forward.

And in this case forward was down (so easy, his knees were so weak already), painfully hitting the tile, casts insufficient to pull John closer so Sherlock’s head move ahead, and he could be lacking digits but there was nothing wrong with his mouth.

The noise that came out of John was indescribable. A groan, loud, a bit animalesque… it was so good Sherlock felt his body twitch even spent as he was. And then hands, both, holding his hair, and for a moment Sherlock thought John was going to yank him back, shout abuse at him, ask what the bloody hell was he doing ( “obvious, John” his sharp, clear mind answered before the question as asked), but no… apparently John had had enough of the holding back too.

"God, Sherlock, you utter sod!" Was the first coherent thing that came out of the man, but he said it as he pushed against Sherlock’s throat.

It has been quite a while since the last time he had done it, but Sherlock could still command his jaw to relax, his tongue to curl and move, his gag reflex to recede. Honestly he would be quite happy to let John fuck his mouth completely, take all control, but John was fairly vanilla, fairly used to ladies with less accepting natures (and pharynges), and even if the surprise and the excitement had pushed him to be rough the first few thrusts, he quickly stop the abuse on Sherlock’s throat and look down, as if to say “sorry”.

Sherlock wouldn’t let him, not this time. John wanted this, was so hard it must be hurting him by now… and as Sherlock drew back, water and saliva and precum stringing on his lips for a moment before being washed away, he look up. John was looking at him, glossy dark eyes, hands still firmly attached to his scalp, and as Sherlock swallow him again, he could actually _feel_ the throbbing of blood on his tongue, and the way John shiver even under the hot shower. And Sherlock hummed, because this was contentment.

This was pure contentment.

"Ahn… jesus… Sherlock!"

Yes, John saying his name like that, in that tone, the good kind of desperate, made Sherlock feel _buzzy_ in a totally different way. He hummed again, looking up, never letting his eyes avert from John because John like this was a fascinating puzzle.

"I’m… Please, don’t, Sherlock… don’t stop that...Sherlock, god, so good… Sherl--" It was a string of senseless words, punctuated by “Sherlock”s, and John would close his eyes but always open them again to look at him, say his name.

Sherlock relaxed his throat as much as he could, and swallow him whole, all the way down, slowly …

"S-Sherlock!" John shouted, or grunted, or moaned, or just possibly sung. The hands grabbing his wet hair got a vice grip, painful, and Sherlock stop himself, breathless, and again let John ride his mouth.

And John did, almost out of spasms, hot salty cum hitting down Sherlock’s throat like honey. John pull away like he had been electrocuted, and the last of his orgasm trickling down Sherlock’s abused mouth with his sharp intake of breath. His eyes had fill with tiny tears at the effort, but Sherlock blinked them away fast to look at John and see what would happen next.

Because now was the really complicated part.

John, post orgasmic bliss, was a lot less responsive then Sherlock. In fact, he stood there, under the water, looking down in a sort of stupor for almost a whole minute, before he decided to move. And his movements were simple. Turn the water off, grab the towels, trow one over Sherlock’s back, slide down to their tiny shower to sit right in front of him, wrap a towel around himself. Nearly robotic, but there was a satisfied exhaustion to it, something Sherlock couldn’t quite put his finger on. After the water on their heads and their own loud noises, the drip-drip on the shower between them sound deafening silent.

"...not good?" Sherlock risked, voice a low rumble. His throat was not prepare for this strenuous use of it, but Sherlock couldn’t find in himself to mind the soreness.

"Bit not good." John said, on reflex, then he seemed to think better of it. "No, actually… I’m not sure. I don’t know. Gosh…" John ran a hand over his hair, spiking it in every direction and making him look funny. "Why you did that?"

"Because…" Sherlock stop, took a deep breath. Saying it out loud was never easy, but he had catch a couple of things about the art of empathy while living with John and one of them was that, sometimes, it was necessary to be a little… vulnerable. Very illogical, of course, but so was the whole shebang that was happening with them. " Because I’m afraid."

John look at him them, really look. It was obvious that the fear was not unilateral, John’s face was an open book sometimes, with a thousand emotions written all over it. Fear, yes, and confusion, and a little bit of anger and one that Sherlock wasn’t sure about, but seemed to be in the category of “I care about you a lot”. John did cared about him a lot, Sherlock was sure of it… because Sherlock himself cared about John a lot too, even if, sometimes, he wasn’t sure what that meant.

"Maybe we need to think about this… for a while." John said, very slowly.

"What is _this_?" John would know, John was good with _emotions_. They only ever frustrate Sherlock.

" _This_ is you asking me to bugger you in the shower and me almost doing it!" ...yet sometimes John sounded just a frustrated. - I don’t know Sherlock, I don’t have a single bloody idea. Nothing is easy with you.

That hurt, a bit. Sherlock knew it was true, of course, he wasn’t an easy person… had never been one and didn’t had any interest in become one ordinary, normal, _boring_ bloke that follow molds and worry about “people” and what “they would say”. But John was the only one… John got him, didn’t he? John understood him, and more importantly, John didn’t run away. It must have shown in is his face because John quickly scoop closer and put a hand on his shoulder.

"Not like that Sherlock. I’m glad is not easy, most of the time… jesus, you save my life on a daily basis by almost getting me killed all the time, you know that. Is just that _this?!_ This is weird."

"I know is weird! Do you think I enjoy obsessing over basic bodily necessities?! Or your state of mind? I do not obsess lightly!"

John laugh at that, and Sherlock laugh with him, because this was ridiculous. Two naked man talking _feelings_ on a bathroom floor. And John’s hair was all messy, and Sherlock’s whole body was bruised, and it was beginning to get really cold.

"Oh bugger all!" John muttered, and he closed the distance between then and planted a kiss on Sherlock’s abused lips. Little one, just a few seconds longer then a peck. "I think I might like you, Sherlock."

Something inside his stomach flipped at least three times, and Sherlock put himself on foot before he could think about it. The last few weeks had been uncomfortable but this, this was fear, pure and simple. John like him?! _Like_ him?! And the kiss, why it set his nerves on fire more then all the other stuff? Oh, no. No, no, no. No!

"I… I have to… Hum." Sherlock did his best to wrap the towel around himself tight, yet the shiver on his spine had nothing to do with cold. He watched John get himself up, with a bit more difficulty, and a sort of resigned expression on his face.

"Ok, let’s just… let’s Mulligan this one. Just forget I say anything."

"No!" And Sherlock was back, right back in John’s personal space, then out again, scared brainless… which was a very new feeling, all of his intellect useless against the fear of… Sherlock wasn’t even sure fear of what. The _like_ , probably, what what it meant, and what should Sherlock do. "I mean, can we… take some time? Isn’t that a-a rugby thing? Time off?!"

John laugh, if a bit bitterly.

"Yeah, yeah is a rugby thing. Time off then. I mean, we have… two days, I guess."

"Yes. We do. So...hum. Time off." Sherlock look at John, plead with his eyes.

"Time off." John agreed, and if he sounded a bit heart broken, Sherlock absolutely didn’t let himself notice.

 


End file.
